


the weak part

by hapful



Series: pieces [2]
Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Gen, Violence, companion fic, ford's pov, general abuse, i know i always say that when bill's involved but it's heavier this time
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-27
Updated: 2016-03-27
Packaged: 2018-05-29 13:39:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,494
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6377872
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hapful/pseuds/hapful
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are a lot of formulas that make up his life, like his ones with Stan, for example. It’s like Stan asking him 'wanna go out and actually see the town, Poindexter?' and Ford going 'I need to track some migration patterns, maybe another time.' Maybe another time, because there are certainly more important things to do. Maybe another time, because Stan understood that. Maybe another time because Stan was always upfront, aggressive even, so surely Stan would say so if there wasn’t another time.</p><p>It’s a formula, it’s who they are, and it’s alright. Stan goes out without him, they’re Stan and Ford, there’s no resentment. Stan goes out without him and Ford’s glad because Ford’s alright and Stan knows it. Ford’s busy and Stan knows it. Ford’s different, Ford’s stronger than he was and Stan knows it.</p><p> </p><p>AU where despite getting to talk after the science fair and sticking together there's still a damn lot of miscommunication between the twins.</p><p>(companion/mirror to the first part of the series this time from ford's pov)</p>
            </blockquote>





	the weak part

When Ford decides, really decides, that his future is in Gravity Falls it takes him several moments to remember the decision isn’t his alone. No, not with Stan at his side.  
  
The realization is like a sucker punch, like the times kids would slap him too roughly on the back and laugh as they ran by. Sometimes he forgot, sometimes he really did forget that they weren’t Stan and Ford but StanandFord and Ford, Ford was okay with that. He was. Stan needs him, he needs Stan. Stan would be excited.  
  
But Stan isn’t excited. It’s like they were sitting on the beach again, at the swings, and here was Ford brimming with possibility and energy and _future_ , bursting from the seams. Here was Ford with the West Coast Tech pamphlet in his hands and his head full of _I can do this_  and _you belong there_  and _you **belong**_  and Stanley-  
  
Here was Stanley, looking uneasy. Here was Stanley, pointing at the dream Ford grew out of. Here they were, dancing around each other. Here was Ford saying _well maybe if this doesn’t work out…_  
  
Stan isn’t excited about the possibilities of Gravity Falls, about Ford’s grant, about any of it. Even Ford, who can’t read moods, even he can catch the dull gleam in Stan’s eyes, the fogg y disinterest, the mechanical responses. Stan isn’t excited about going to Gravity Falls, about grants, about any of it.  
  
Stan agrees anyway, and Ford smiles.  
  
(He thinks _maybe I’m reading Stan wrong._ He thinks _maybe I’m over thinking this_. He thinks _maybe Stan still resents it all._ He thinks _maybe Stan still resents me_. He thinks _I don’t resent him._ He thinks _I_ do _resent him._  He thinks _I resent StanandFord._  He thinks _maybe I should give this up._  
  
He watches Stan. He _watches_  Stan. He thinks _I **won’t**  give this up._)  
  
Stan throws his arm around Ford’s shoulder and Ford calms, looks at his grant, looks at his hand. He plans for a brilliant future.  
  
—  
  
Gravity Falls is everything he wanted and more.  
  
On the first day Ford loses his car to a creature he can barely comprehend. On the second he finds some sort of tiny, mystical village in forest when he goes out to try and find the creature from the first day. On the third day the village declares war on the plot of land he’s building his house on top of. On the fourth the red haired man building said house helps Ford work out a peace treaty with the village then promptly pretends none of it happened.  
  
Ford can barely contain his glee. It’s _wonderful_.  
  
Everywhere he turns there’s something _new_  there’s something _strange_  there’s something _wonderful._  Every new discovery is full of adrenaline and intrigue and opportunity, every new page in his new journal is filled to the brim with possibility. Every day is different. He’s different.  
  
Oh, he’s so different. He feels alive, really alive, really filled to the brim with whatever it was that made people greet each new day brightly. It feels so different from before, from college, from the endless hours of studying and studying and I have to do better and I have to be better and I have to _prove it_ , I have to. It’s different from his father’s unimpressed shadow, their peer’s unimpressed glances, the suffocating air, the suffocation. It’s all different.  
  
He’s different but some things aren’t different, like his drive, like his strangeness, like his burning need to _prove_. That’s alright, he thinks, because that’s just part of who he is now. It’s all part of the formula.  
  
There are a lot of formulas that make up his life, like his ones with Stan, for example. It’s like Stan asking him _wanna go out and actually see the town, Poindexter?_  and Ford going _I need to track some migration patterns, maybe another time._  Maybe another time, because there are certainly more important things to do. Maybe another time, because Stan understood that. Maybe another time because Stan was always upfront, aggressive even, so surely Stan would say so if there wasn’t another time.  
  
It’s a formula, it’s who they are, and it’s alright. Stan goes out without him, they’re Stan and Ford, there’s no resentment. Stan goes out without him and Ford’s glad because Ford’s alright and Stan knows it. Ford’s busy and Stan knows it. Ford’s different, Ford’s stronger than he was and Stan knows it.  
  
—  
  
Ford goes to the lake once and regrets it.  
  
It’s beautiful, serene, a postcard on the rack of a tourist trap. It doesn’t smell like salt but it sounds like waves, sometimes people running, pattering, laughing. Even the boats on the dock cre e e eak in that same lovely way, even the air smells a little like old wood if the wind carried it right.  
  
Ford’s studying an island but he sits on the shore instead.   
  
Ford’s _supposed_ to be studying the strange island but he dwells instead.  
  
He dwells on boats, boats and a dream he grew out of. Boats and a night he was trying to grow out of. That night and the feeling of l o a t h i n g because it was so strong so overpowering so _sure_  he was right. He dwells on loathing and the certainty that he had been betrayed, he had been tricked, he had been a fool fool _fool_. He dwells on certainty and guilt at the truth, at Stan’s heartbroken face as he went  
  
_P-Poindexter I_ swear _I didn’t mean to! I hit the table- no! I only hit the table! It was still running and I- no, the grate fell off and I put it back in and… and I’m sorry! Alright! Y’were moving on without me and I was- was scared and I was- I_ am _stupid but I swear Stanford, I didn’t mean it, I didn’t want this, I didn’t-_  
  
blubbering and yelling and they were both yelling, shouting and spitting and far past dignity.   
  
Ford, he dwells on that moment that was in him, that moment that almost made him turn his back for good. That moment Stan stared at him, wide eyed, tears and anger and _guilt_  and fear, that moment Ford almost couldn’t forgive him. In his chest had been claws and acid, tearing up his throat, tearing him up with how _unfair_  it was and how he worked so _hard_  and how Stan should have _told him_  and how Stan never tried and how Stan always just _failed_  and-  
  
He dwells on those unworthy feelings, he dwells on letting them go, letting them burn through him. He forgave Stan. He forgives Stan. The logic is there. It wasn’t Stan’s fault. It wasn’t.  
  
Then their father came home, and Ford was weak.  
  
In his journal he draws the hull of a boat. After their fight Stan never brought up the Stan ‘o War again. After the week it took Ford to find Stan they never mentioned it, after the second fight they had by Stan’s car at 3am they never said a word about boats. The Stan o’ War is left to rot, was left to rot, maybe discovered by some other naive, lonely kids in need of adventure.  
  
Ford has adventure now. He draws a mast on the ship. He’s stronger than he was.  
  
—  
  
“I found the most amazing place in the forest yesterday,” Ford tells Stan over breakfast, no, over Ford guzzling down his more sugar than coffee at Stan’s insistence he eat anything at all before running out. “You should have seen it, the crystals naturally form with the unique ability to alter size- alter size, Stanley! A moth flew by that was bigger than my head.”  
  
“Wow,” Stanley answers, flipping through his paper, closed off. “Rocks, Poindexter. That’s what you’re telling me. Rocks that make bugs bigger and grosser is what kept you out past midnight.”  
  
There’s a lump in Ford’s throat, and Stan rustles his paper in a way that feels like the pawnshop. It’s silly, Ford thinks. This is just part of their formula. Stan jokes and Ford counters.  
  
He tries, “Not just bugs, and I was busy unlike some people.”  
  
Stan stiffens, he thinks Stan does, and then Stan’s laugh is thin. “Yeah, guess so. Lookin’ at _rocks._ ”  
  
“You should come with me,” Ford tries again, and Stan’s grip just tightens. Ford doesn’t understand so he brushes it aside. “You can see for yourself-“  
  
“I told ya before, I’m not gonna be your assistant, Stanford,” Stan grumbled.  
  
And Ford let out a breath. Of course, because Stan didn’t have time for ‘nerd’ things. He didn’t have time or interest for any of it.  
  
Ford finishes his coffee and leaves the cup on the table. “Your loss, I’ll be back by dinner.”  
  
He isn’t and Stan doesn’t bother saving him leftovers this time.  
  
—  
  
He’s stuck.  
  
Ford paces his study, paces his room, paces the house full of new possibilities and finds that all the lines they draw end in a tangled mess. There’s a desperation in his throat, stuck against the skin, making it hard to swallow because he _has_  to have this, he has to, this was going to be his greatest work, his masterpiece. It feels like all his life has been leading to this, this one moment, this one question- why was it all strange? What did it all mean? Where did the world ( h e ) fit in to it?  
  
The Grand Unified Theory of Weirdness, something like that, something to explain it all and he  
  
he was failing.  
  
Of course this happens, Ford thinks every day, at every roadblock. This happens because discovery and intrigue and acclaim means  _work_  and he works, oh he works. It’s always been this way, his whole life, if he just worked hard enough for long enough with everything he had he could do it. He _could_  do it. He had to.  
  
It doesn’t work.  
  
Ford slams his fist into the chalk board, just a useless scribble of question mark after question mark because that’s all he can find. Questions, more questions, more roads that lead to more forked paths and somewhere across the room there’s a shadow looming over him, broad shoulders and dark lenses over its eyes. It’s watching him, from the corner of his eye, asking him what’s taking so long, asking him why he hasn’t figured it out yet, telling him to _hurry up ya knucklehead, aren’tcha supposed to be the brainiac in the family?_  
  
He closes his eyes, rubs them. Maybe he’s tired.  
  
He shuts himself in his room, his study, pouring over dead end after dead end. He doesn’t see Stan often. Stan calls him for dinner once, twice, three times, and by the fourth his tone is high, strained and irate.   
  
At dinner Stan says, “C’mon Ford, you look like shit. Take a break, come out fishing with me tomorrow.” They don’t talk about boats. Stan doesn’t miss a beat. “The lake’s real nice this time of year.”  
  
Ford almost says _I know._  Instead he taps his finger against his spoon, watching his soup ripple and thinks of the unnatural cliff formations, what they mean, where they connect, how it all connects to one, simple spot. _Why._  
  
Stan clears his throat, irritated. Ford glances up. “Oh… no, I can’t. I have to finish this- my work ,” he finishes lamely, stops himself as Stan’s eyes already threaten to glaze over at hearing his ‘nerd stuff.’  
  
Ford doesn’t bristle, he doesn’t. Stan never cared about his work, and that’s fine. That’s how they function. It doesn’t matter in the grand scheme of things.  
  
“Would it really kill ya to take one day off from your big important work, Poindexter?” Stan’s insistent, and Ford doesn’t bristle, he doesn’t. “Your dumb mysteries and spooky monsters will still be around the next day.”  
  
“So will the lake.” Ford doesn’t bristle or snap, he states it clearly as he stands. “I really should get back to work, thank you for dinner.”  
  
He pretends not to hear Stan shove the half empty bowls in the sink loud enough for something to crack.  
  
—  
  
Sometimes he thinks about calling Fiddleford.  
  
It’s funny, in the house he’s never alone, not really. If some creature wasn’t causing trouble then Stan was there, mulling about, watching TV, doing whatever it was Stan did in the day to day. Ford didn’t really know, he didn’t think to ask often and when he did Stan had little to say. Logically he was rarely really alone, yet he could pinpoint a strange ache in his chest as just that. Loneliness. Isolation.  
  
So he thinks about calling Fiddleford, his ( o n e ) good friend. He thinks about asking him how he was doing, hearing about his new wife and new projects, he thinks about laughing over old professors or new discoveries. He thinks about the first time Fiddleford introduced him to someone else as his friend Stanford and how his heart felt warm.  
  
He thinks about Fiddleford asking what he was working on, expecting greatness because that’s what Ford was supposed to be. He thinks about having to explain being stuck, being cornered, being _unworthy_  of that expectation. It makes every part of him feel sick.  
  
He doesn’t call Fiddleford. He works harder and harder and _harder_.  
  
And then, one day, one miraculous day, it all works out. On that one day he meets Bill, and everything changes.  
  
—  
  
“What’s wrong, IQ?” Bill asks him, floats over him in the deep galaxy blue of the dreamscape. Equations are dripping off Ford’s fingers, some splattering on the ground and some racing through the air to fill the mass of formulas before him. It’s beautiful he thinks.   
  
“Helllooo, dreamscape to Stanford Pines.”  
  
Ford starts, guilty for all of a moment before Bill laughs (like Stan used to) at his distraction, at his penchant for awkward and strange and missed cues. Bill laughs and jostles his shoulder with one sharp elbow (like Stan used to) like it was okay, like it was endearing.  
  
“Sorry ,” he breaths, even though maybe he doesn’t have to because Bill understands (like Stan used to). “I was just focused on the equation-“  
  
“Part of you was, part of you wasn’t,” Bill kicked back, waving a hand so the floating formulas rearranged themselves around him. “I can tell, you meat suits don’t have a whole lot of parts to throw around in the first place.”  
  
Ford rolls his eyes at ‘meat suits’ just to see Bill laugh it off. It makes him feel warm. Bill’s concern makes him feel warm, honored, _special_.  
  
He doesn’t want to lie, and Bill asked. Something akin to a _god_  cared, something high high above looked down and noticed.

He can’t help it. Ford’s stronger now but part of him knows he’s still weak. “I’m- Stanley’s going to find out about you eventually, I suppose I’m just worried about it. He-“  
  
“Doesn’t respect your work?” Bill plucked the words right out of his mouth, leaving him quiet. “Doesn’t even try to get it? What’s with the surprise there, smart guy? I see everything, remember? And I definitely see how little he respects you.”  
  
“That’s not-“ Ford starts, automatically, some part of him clenching in fear. Bill watches him with… he doesn’t know. Compassion? Interest? Whatever it was feel piercing, feels _knowing._  He doesn’t want to lie. “That’s the way we’ve always been. I did the school work and he…”  
  
“Protected you?” Bill finishes, and Ford sighs, feels a deep shame in his gut. He was stronger now, he was. He wants so very much to be. He wants so very much for his muse ( g o d ) to look at him and see strength.  
  
Bill’s glow spikes as he twirls his cane. “Well, you haven’t needed that for a while now, have you?”  
  
Ford glances up, watches him, feels honored and intimidated and hopeful . “No, I haven’t.”  
  
“You’re the man who’s going to change the _world_ , Stanford Pines.” Bill tells him like a promise, and the dry, dusty part of him laps it up desperately. “So don’t go worrying about him, hm? He doesn’t need to know about me anyway, why would he? He doesn’t seem to want anything to do with your work.”  
  
“You’re right.” Ford answers, the sting those words caused followed by a lighter feeling, a darker one. Maybe there was some sick joy in keeping a secret all to himself, a secret for Ford, not StanandFord.   
  
“Of course I am.” Bill doesn’t miss a beat. “I’m _always_  right.”  
  
And he always was.  
  
—  
  
He’s sharing his head with Bill by the time he calls Fiddleford.  
  
It’s a new sort of life, never being alone, not really, having every part of you laid bare. It felt like taking a bounding leap when he first grasped Bill’s flame ridden hand, when he first promised everything Until The End Of Time. It was a leap of faith, a trust fall, a chance for Bill to really see All of him and find it wanting.  
  
Bill doesn’t find it wanting and Ford feels a relief deeper than his bones, melted down into the cracks of his existence.   
  
He calls Fiddleford and tells him his plans, his excitement, his goals and dreams and the worthiness of this cause. He tells Fiddleford about how he’s doing, about how Stan’s doing, about the landscape and the people and they laugh, they chatter, they dart back and forth. He doesn’t tell Fiddleford about Bill.  
  
Stan, like in all things, proves disinterested ( u n i m p r e s s e d ) in the whole affair, waving off Ford’s project and Fiddleford’s arrival. Ford only notices from the sidelines, only barely lets Stan’s _y’sure this portal thing is a good idea?_  get under his skin because there’s so much to do, and so little of it when he’s awake.  
  
Stan only asks once, glances him over and goes, “You’re sure sleeping a lot lately. Hell, more than I ever saw ya do before. You’re not sick, right?”  
  
“You worry too much, Stanley.” Ford answers without missing a beat, feeling something in his mind shift as Bill moves about. From the other side of the table Fiddleford chuckles.  
  
“It’s a good thing I’d reckon. I used to think you were gonna wear yourself down to the gears with how you’d go on without sleeping before.”  
  
Ford looks up long enough to give Fiddleford a grateful look and Stan a raised brow. “See? Fidds agrees.”   
  
“Bah,” is Stan’s only answer, waving a hand as he leaves them to their work.  
  
—  
  
Eventually even Fiddleford refuses to understand.  
  
“Stanford, there’s something mighty strange going on ‘round here.” He corners Ford one day in the hall by the kitchen, face positively dripping with friendly concern. There’s an edge of irritation too, that whip crack temper of Fiddleford’s just below the surface.  
  
It makes Ford think of college, of Fiddleford in college, the only person besides Stan who tried to give him the time of day. Of course Stan in those days was barely around, only staggering into their apartment late late late in the night, only limping in with burst lips or black eyes or _it’s nothing, Poindexter, go back t’sleep or work or whatever._  Dismissal.  
  
Fiddleford in college would notice his hand shake from too little sleep, too little food, too much caffeine, too little sunlight and socializing and all the small pieces of life he didn’t have time for. No, not with all he had to achieve, all he had to prove. Fiddleford would point it out, carefully badger him, snap when he snapped. Fiddleford gave as good as he got, tried to protect Stanford from himself maybe, and Stanford  
  
_didn’t resent it, didn’t resent it, didn’t, didn’t Are you sure, smart guy? What’s that human term, the lady doth protest too much?_  
  
and laughter.  
  
“Stanford.” Fiddleford didn’t find his awkward and strange and missed cues endearing . M ost people didn’t. Fiddleford sounds concerned but sharp, edged around a sigh.

  
Ford swallows something trying to get its way up his throat. “Yes, sorry, what was it? What do you mean by strange? The reason we’re here is because of the town’s strange properties , Fiddleford, you’ll have to be more specific.”  
  
“I mean in this house, with _you_ , not the town.” Fiddleford didn’t beat around bushes, not really. Ford shifts, tries not to let Fiddleford’s gaze pierce him. “I’m yer friend, Stanford, I can tell something’s not right. Why don’t we talk about it, alright?”  
  
“I appreciate it Fidds, but there’s nothing to say.” He lies, does he lie? It wasn’t a lie, not really, there was nothing to be truly concerned  about. The small wave of approval from Bill for the thought eases him.   
  
A part of his mind itches, tells him _put a hand on Fiddleford’s arm_  and he does, without thinking. A part of his brain stretches, says _tell him it’s okay_  and he does.  
  
“It’s okay.” His mind churns, spits out answers. “Maybe we’ve both just been working too hard. How about we take the rest of the day off? I know your wife would love to see you home early for dinner once and a while.”  
  
There’s a tension in Fiddleford, in his eyes, running through the muscles under Ford’s palm. Still, he sighs. “I trust ya, Stanford, but y’know you’re always welcome to talk to me, right? We’re partners.”  
  
Part of Ford’s mind _laughs_  and he doesn’t know why. “Of course.” He answers, smiles when his brain itches this way then that. It’s so natural, so seamless. Partners, words like that.  
  
As Fiddleford walks away the part of Ford’s brain that Bill’s in praises _great work, Sixer._  
  
(Like Stan used to.)  
  
—  
  
It takes a year for everything to go wrong.  
  
Fiddleford’s eyes are glass then they _shatter_ , the shrapnel is everywhere as he spews _you’re the one with the sickness_. Parts of Ford’s head are trying to put it all together, understand what’s happening, dimensional sickness or some unseen side effect of the energy of the portal or-  
  
Bill’s quiet. Bill’s _silent._  
  
“I don’t need you!” Ford shouts after Fiddleford, feels the pieces of something a little too much like his life slipping through his fingers. “I don’t need anyone!”  
  
_Bill_ , he thinks desperately, _I need-_  
  
But it’s quiet. It’s silent.  
  
There are whispers streaming through his skull, the sound of distant laughter and gnashed teeth. His head whips around, trying to find the source, trying to understand because something was too wrong, too silent.  
  
_Bill_ , he thinks, guts churning with slow realization, with sharp realization, with pain. He stares at his own horrified reflection on the metal wall. _Where are you-_  
  
He can barely finish the thought before there’s footsteps behind him, a voice. “Ford-“  
  
Ford whirls around, heart beating in his throat until he sees Stan, it’s just Stan, it’s alright. Stan is staring at him like something’s wrong, like there are ghosts in the walls and for a second Ford wants to ask _can you hear them too?_  wants to ask _how did everything change this quickly?_  
  
Instead he gathers himself, says, “Stanley, you’re home early.”  
  
There’s a pinch in Stanley’s face immediately. “No, I’m not. You’ve been holed up in here so long you wouldn’t know though, would you?”  
  
Accusation, not new to their formula but unpleasant. Part of Ford wants to stomp his feet, wants to yell can’t you _see_  now’s not the time? Can’t you _hear_  it all falling apart?  
  
But Ford’s strong instead, Ford’s back is straight and his eyes are sharp. He can figure this out. He _has_  to figure this out.  
  
Stan continues, “What gives, Ford? McGucket just darted out of here like a bat out of hell, babbling about how we’re _cursed._ That’s an extreme reaction even for him.”  
  
Ford feels something hateful clawing up his gut. It feels small, abandoned.   
  
“It doesn’t matter.” Stanley stiffens, and Ford doesn’t care, because this is all more important than that. Stanley would understand if he tried. Stanley would- “I don’t- I don’t need him, I can figure this out on my own.”  
  
“It does matter!” Stan gives him no room, snaps, steps forward with an energy that makes Ford flinch. “He looked ready to strangle the first person who looked at him wrong  Stanford, and you don’t look much better! What the hell happened here?”  
  
For the briefest of moments Ford considers it, considers the weak part of himself that wanted nothing more than to hide behind Stanley, just like back then.   
  
“It’s-“ Words die on his tongue, leave an aftertaste like rot and iron, he _hates it._  He looks around, looks for anything, for some clue this is all wrong, just a dream, anything other than it really is. His fingers itch to reach out, to grasp Stan’s arm. His tongue is heavy with things he wants to say.  
  
But he does it. He crushes the weak part of him down. He has to. He _has_ to. “I said it was nothing, Stanley, just leave it be. Why don’t you go visit the lake for a while? You like it there.”   
  
And then Stan snaps. “Fine, why would you trust me, right? Why have me involved? Just your brother.” He spits out the last words, they crackle in the air between them, somewhere between the lines.  
  
“Stanley…” Ford tries, throws hopelessly into the long beat of silence between them.  
  
And then the formula finally cracks. And then Stan turns his back on him and is gone.  
  
And then Ford’s alone. No, and then Ford’s alone with _him._  
  
—  
  
“What’s wrong, smart guy?” Bill asks him, jeers, floating in the red ash that filled the air of his dreamscape. It takes all of Ford’s concentration to ignore him, to latch on to any form of peace, any chance at keeping himself asleep because his body was so desperate for it.  
  
Bill had other plans though. Bill always had other plans.  
  
“Helllooo, dreamscape to Stanford Pines. Do you really think you can ignore **M E** , kid?”  
  
The world flips, twists, and he’s drowning. He thinks he’s drowning, he tastes saltwater on his tongue and seagulls screech overhead and did he drown before? He hates the beach, his memories tell him, but Bill’s laughing and laughing and laughing-  
  
“Get _out!_ ” Ford chokes through the water, forces the beach back where it belongs. Bill’s shifting through his memories, sampling them, twisting them this way and that. He loves the beach, it reminds him of boats they never talk about, of the smell of salt, of childhood. He hates the beach, it’s a broken dream, he drowned once, didn’t he? He died right there and-  
  
Bill’s still laughing as Ford forces the dreamscape to nothing, to neutral, to white white white and clean.  
  
“Nice one, Sixer! You’re really getting the hang of this mindscape stuff. Brings a tear to my eye.” His tone is like it always was, how it always seemed those days, warm and sincere and _praise_ he desperately wanted (wants) to lap up. “Seriously though, aren’t you getting bored of this tantrum? Who are you fooling anyway?”  
  
Bill is the only thing that stands out now in the emptiness, and parades of color follow his every movement. They stain the white, intrude upon everything and leave permanent gashes of chroma in their wake. They rot in neon \-  garish, unstoppable. Every time Ford tries to clean they seep right back in. They’re on his hands.  
  
He closes his eyes, concentrates. Bill doesn’t stop.  
  
“I mean I get it, you humans have this whole ‘moral standards’ thing.” Ford’s eyes weren’t open but in the dream he still sees Bill make air quotes, tone dripping with condescension. “And it’s real cute, sure, like for the first five minutes. But now here we are, and boy oh boy, it’s getting dull.  
  
“So tell me, Fordsy, really, who is this for? To make yourself feel better? Feel  **s t r o n g** ?”  
  
He whirls around Ford’s head and Ford tries not to see it. There’s so many of Bill here, all colorful and bright, all impossible to look at for too long but impossible to look away from. (Like g o d s )  
  
“Stop, ” Ford grits out. “I won’t help you destroy this world. You knew that. You _had_ to.”  
  
“I _had_ to? Oh buddy, now that’s rich.” Bill’s laughter peels. His hands are on Ford’s shoulders, physical and far too real, far too many. Ford tries to move but he can’t. He feels what little clean white he conjured going dark, nightmarish. “You think what’s in that skull of yours told me you’d be a big hero? Stanford Stanford Stanford, I **K N O W** you.”  
  
“Stop, ” Ford grits out again, deeper, shaking.   
  
“I _know_  you’re weak, I _know_ you’ve always been weak. I know you hid behind that bumbling leech of yours, I know you let him be your shield for years! I know, Stanford. No secrets between us, remember? I know what you really think of him-“  
  
“Stop!” Ford shouts, and the clean white was almost gone now. The world was neon and rot and sea air.  
  
“-and you know what? You’re right. C’moooon  Sixer, do you really think he would ever have cared about you, protected you, if you weren’t blood? If you didn’t clean up after him your whole life? Haha, look at you! He can barely stand the real you or your hobbies. Just _nerd stuff_ and boy, the look on his face! Ever seen someone smell something real foul for the first time? Like that! It’s hilarious!”  
  
Ford’s trembling, his fingertips are black. He thinks _stop stop s t o p_. Bill doesn’t.  
  
“So give it to me straight then, why bother with this tantrum? Why? I asked **W H Y**   S T A N F O R D ? To save your brother? Because you love him? Because you’re  _strong?_ And you call him the liar!”  
  
“You’re wrong. ” Ford spits, weak, _weak_. He grapples with something, anything, any way to escape back to the waking world, back out of his own head.   
  
“You know I’m right, Sixer.” Bill laughs, Bill doesn’t miss a beat. “I’m _always_ right.”  
  
And as Stanford shot up, awake and aware and heaving heavy breaths a traitorous, weak part of him thought _he always was._  
  
—  
  
Ford’s strong and he doesn’t sleep.  
  
Ford’s strong and he doesn’t _need anyone._  
  
Ford’s strong and he searches for answers, for ways around it all. He searches every day for a way to fix his mistakes, because they’re _his_ , because he’s not helpless, because he can fix them, he knows he can. Ford’s different now. Everything’s changed.  
  
He doesn’t sleep. He doesn’t sleep. He doesn’t _sleep._  
  
If he gets too weak Bill has an easier time rooting around his mind. If he sleeps Bill is there, Bill’s stronger, Bill can take over. Ford builds a ward out of iron, sets it in front of the door of to the portal, right on the console. When Bill wrestles control from him only to be unable to cross the new barrier he howls in fury, slams Ford’s fist into the door frame until his knuckles swell and pop, _laughs._  
  
_Good one, Sixer!_ Like it’s a joke. It rattles through his ( their ) head. _I’m impressed!_  
  
His mind slams back to New Jersey, to eyes behind dark lenses and Bill’s laughing. He cradles his hand to his chest and escapes, runs away because (he’s weak)  
  
Ford’s strong, he focuses on each day, surviving until the end of it, fixing mistakes. He draws warnings with his good hand, invests in invisible ink. He writes  
  
_Can’t sleep! Can’t sleep! Can’t sleep! Can’t sleep!_  
  
over and over and over again, like a mantra, like a reminder.   
  
He draws a boat somewhere, on some page, an elegant hull, a sturdy mast.  
  
There are scabs on his fingers, dirt under his nails. There little drops of blood on some of the pages and he doesn’t remember where it came from. He avoids Bill’s page. He’s strong, he’s strong, he’s strong, he wonders how long Stan’s been gone now, he wonders if Stan will come back.  
  
More than any of it he wonders if this is what Stan felt like a decade ago, kicked from the house, unsure if Ford would come, waiting for something to change.  
  
Ford chokes on his strength. A voice reminds him he’s **w e a k** and he doesn’t know who it belongs to anymore.   
  
He sends a postcard, one he had meant to send to their parents a lifetime ago and forgot. He sends it to Stan. He’s weak.  
  
Stanley comes.  
  
—  
  
There’s a cup of tea in his hands, in his favorite chipped mug and it tastes terrible. Stanley has always been bad at tea, Stanley didn’t care for tea because it was just ‘leaf water,’ because their father made it clear Men drank things like coffee. The tea tastes more like hot, dirty water than anything else, and just a few months ago Ford would have been able to tease Stanley for it. Just a lifetime ago they would have laughed about it.  
  
It takes a greater part of the evening to explain it all to Stanley, everything, _not_ everything because there were things Stanley didn’t need to know. It’s not about trust, he tells himself against the crackling laughter at that **l i e** , it’s about what’s important and what isn’t, what Stanley needs and what he doesn’t.  
  
What would Ford know about what Stanley needs? Ford apparently didn’t know anything.  
  
“Y’ever think I was a burden?” Stanley asks him, sitting across the table with his own cup of hot, dirty leaf water. He stares out the window instead of at Ford, stares into the dark forest and somewhere beyond that. Maybe back to a beach in New Jersey, maybe farther.  
  
Ford doesn’t know what to say. “Did you ever think I was?”  
  
Stan scoffs, wags a finger warningly. “Not fair, answering a question with a question.”  
  
Ford always hated being called out. “Does that mean yes?”  
  
Stan sighs, scrubs his face, and Ford feels shame creep up his collar. He takes a breath. “Sometimes, yes,”  he admits, and Stan stiffens. “I don’t even know if it was just to make myself feel better or if I really felt that way. Our whole childhood I felt like a burden to you, the freak who got stones thrown at him, the one you always had to stand up for.”  
  
He releases the same breath, or so it feels like. Stan’s still not looking at him and it makes everything easier. “It was nice to think I wasn’t the one who was a burden anymore. Pretty arrogant, right?”  
  
“Sounds like you as a teenager. You were pretty surly sometimes.” Stan huffs with a stretched kind of amusement, and even if the words stung Ford couldn’t bring himself to rise to them. They felt too hollow, like settling dust. “Guess that makes me just as surly for resenting you.”  
  
“For what?” Ford asks and almost regrets it.   
  
Stan’s quiet for too long, makes Ford fidget with unease. Then Stan continues his voice is far away, past the dark woods, maybe past that faraway beach too. “For… out growing me. For being better. For not needing me the way I needed you.”  
  
Ford swallows at a lump in his throat, at apologies, at disgust he can’t place. “We’ve lived together our whole lives and never-“  
  
“-talked about it?” Stan’s laugh is humorless and dry. It really isn’t funny, Ford thinks. “Hell Ford, I’m half surprised you actually came to find me after I got kicked out.”  
  
“I’m half surprised you came when I called.” Ford responds, and Stan flinches like the admission hurts him. Like his admission didn’t hurt Ford.  
  
What a pair, Ford thinks.  
  
“Y’know,” Stan finally starts, looking as tired as Ford felt, “Sometimes I think Pops might have messed us up.”  
  
Ford stares and he can’t help it, he really can’t. He laughs, hands covering his face, smothering the sound in his palms like it needed to be hidden, to be stashed away.  
  
He feels Stan’s hand on his arm and realizes he can’t stop shaking.  
  
—  
  
Having Stan there makes him feel safe, and for all the parts of him that scoff and spit at it he’s more hopeful than he’s been in days, months, _months._  
  
There’s not much Stan can do, there’s so little Ford himself can do but Stan still hovers, still talks, still fills the air with words that aren’t poison and shrapnel and _Bill_. He listens to Ford ramble possibilities, listens to Ford spit fire and _hate_ at Bill, listens to Ford drip endless worries and scenarios and bad endings. Stan has little to say back but he listens, and it’s  
  
it’s _don’t listen to ‘em, Sixer, they’re just jealous idiots. One day we’re gonna go far away from this place, remember? C’mon, get up, we got work t’do and those bozos aren’t gonna stop us!_  it’s  
  
_High six!_ and laughter.  
  
Bill’s quieter. It scares him, it _scares him,_ deeper than his bones, deeper than the physical. Bill’s quiet and Stan fills the silence with jabber, with presence, with Mr. Personality.  
  
He says, _Ya gotta try to sleep more, Poindexter. Those bags of yours need bellhops._  
  
Bill’s quieter, so Ford thinks _maybe._ He says, _If it will stop your fussing then why not._  
  
Ford sleeps, and it’s quiet. He sleeps and opens his eyes in a dusty field of corn. He sleeps and he walks down it, feels it brushing waving in a wind that’s not real and t h e n  
  
Bill’s there.  
  
—  
  
“What does it feel like?” Ford asked a lifetime ago, shortly after he shook Bill’s flaming hand. He was sitting in a circle of candles then, he wanted to get this _right_ , he wanted to so badly. He wanted Bill to be pleased.  
  
Bill liked the question and Stanford was pleased. “Can’t wait to see for yourself?”  
  
“Humans like to be prepared for things.”  
  
“Booooring!” Bills laughed in his skull, in their shared space. “Well, can’t say what it feels like for you mortals, you’re so full of squishy parts and _feelings._ ”  
  
“Then what does it feel like for you?” Ford asked, curious.  
  
And Bill doesn’t miss a beat. “Like a real trip, Sixer.”  
  
The first time Bill possessed him was more than a trip, it was a whirlwind, it was crossed lines and _no_ lines and lifetimes he couldn’t comprehend. It settled into a feeling like his skin was numb, a feeling like the few times he woke up and couldn’t _move._ It was sleep paralysis only he was moving, he was moving where he didn’t order himself to go.  
  
He closed his eyes but his eyes wouldn’t close. He trusted Bill, so it was alright. He knew Bill, so it felt like triumph when Bill gave him his body back with words of praise.   
  
He tried to write it in his journal, that first feeling, that storm of him becoming _them_ becoming _Bill_ with him as an afterthought. He tried to explain it to himself, maybe like sitting back but no, maybe like sleep paralysis but no, maybe like a storm suddenly stopping, maybe like the cracks in between two things mashing together.  
  
He gave up. He couldn’t put it to words.  
  
Back then Bill said, “You have to be completely willing here, Stanford. I can’t just take you over willy-nilly, you know? You _do_ trust me, don’t you?”  
  
So Ford said, “Yes, of course I do.”  
  
And he was, he was willing. He was flattered. He was honored.  
  
And Bill, he lied.  
  
—  
  
Bill’s there and Stanford isn’t Stanford anymore, Stanford is them then _Bill,_ then an afterthought.  
  
Stanford tries to wrestle control from the storm, slams and beats against it, fights tooth and nail and blood and bone just like he had before, just like before, and Bill  
  
Bill holds on. Bill walks out of Ford’s room, into the kitchen. Bill stops when he sees Stanley getting up.  
  
Bill uses Stanford’s voice, asks Stanley to follow him down to the basement. Stan follows.  
  
Ford’s _screaming._  
  
Stanley looks tired, irate, a small touch of grumpy he always got when he just woke up. Stanley looks at him, pieces slowly fitting together in his still waking mind. Stan starts to say something, say things, but it’s garbled against Ford’s grasp on their form. On _his_ form.  
  
Their body shudders but he can’t break through. He fights and fights and fights but he can’t break through. Stan’s fighting back and Ford can’t do anything, Stan’s struggling as they grapple and Ford tries but it’s not enough. Stan tries to get the upper hand but Bill pushes back, grabs Stan’s wrist, slams his arm into the hot brand meant for _Bill_ and Bill alone.  
  
Stan’s _screaming._  
  
It shatters through Ford’s head, through Bill, through the iron grasp Bill has on him and Ford pushes, he thrashes, he screams back and tears and claws and-  
  
And he’s holding Stan’s wrist to hot iron, and his limbs are his again and he’s _holding Stan’s wrist there_ and Stan’s screaming.  
  
Ford lets go with a gasp, throws himself back.  
  
“Stanley…”   He forces out, ears ringing, head ringing with Bill’s parting cackle. He starts to say _I’m sorry,_ feeling the words puncture every part of him. He reaches out, six fingers to Stanley.  
  
Stanley flinches back, Fiddleford flinched back. They both did, they both stared (stare) like there’s something sick in him. Like he hurt them.  
  
Even when Stan grabs him, wraps an arm around him, mutters into his shoulder and smells like burnt _meat_ , even then Ford knows they’re right. The part of his head that sounds like Bill knows it, the part that’s him too, the part that’s weak, they all know it.  
  
There are tears in the corners of Stan’s eyes, like he’s scared, like he’s horrified and injured and cornered. Ford grabs his arm, pulls him up, focuses. He doesn’t let go.   
  
—  
  
Stan says, “I’m fine.”  
  
He says it when Ford’s eyes drift down to Stan’s hand, to the thick grooves where Stan’s skin had been burned away by hot iron. (By Ford.) He says it when Ford looks away, face pinched in regret and memory and the _smell_ of it still in his nostrils.  
  
“Ford, I’ll be alright, ” Stan insists as they sit in the hospital, after the doctors looked at Stan’s hand and broken nose from the fray. “Soon it’ll be just an ugly old scar- hell, it’s sort of cool looking, right? Like a tattoo.”  
  
Ford swallows a lot of things, lumps rapidly forming and apologies and _disgust._ He tries to nod. He tries.  
  
“He won’t- it won’t happen again. I swear.”  
  
He can see Stan swallowing out of the corner of his eye, maybe  at the same things, maybe not. Stan’s scared, but he tries to sit higher. He was always better at pretending. “Ford, what are we going to do now?”  
  
Ford breaths in, and out. Part of him goes _you should have never gotten him involved._ Another part agrees _selfish selfish selfish._  He can’t tell if it’s Bill anymore.  
  
“I’ll figure something out,”  he settles on. Stan shifts and Ford doesn’t look up.  
  
Stan’s tone is tense. (Scared.) “What, like holy water and exorcisms? Is that really gonna help?”  
  
Ford grits his teeth, almost snaps but the second his eyes graze over Stan, over Stan’s arm, he loses the pit of rage. It goes cold. “We’ll have to see, but until then we’ll need to be more careful. You need to lock your room at night and keep a weapon with you at all times.”  
  
“Seriously, Poindexter, do you really think I need a weapon to subdue you?” Stan asks, dry. “No offense but you’re not exactly a heavy weight world champion over here.”  
  
Ford says nothing, just looks at Stan’s arm, lets his eyes linger on the blood still spotting Stan’s shirt and sleeves.   
  
Stan fidgets, glances away. “Fine, whatever, if it’ll make y’feel better.”  
  
It won’t, not much, not enough, but again Ford keeps his peace. The silence is heavy until Stan pipes up again, tone different. Ford can’t place it.  
  
“Well what can I do besides that?” He isn’t looking at Ford, not really. He picks at his sleeve until Ford reaches over and places a hand on his arm to stop him.   
  
Maybe it’s the right thing to do, because Stan looks at him then. Ford finally finds a word for the tone, the look. Vulnerable. “There’s gotta be something, right?”  
  
Ford’s tongue feels heavy, his thoughts slog and slip through the old standbys of _shouldn’t have gotten him involved_ and _fix this fix this fix this_ and _you’re different now._ He wants to do right by Stan. He wants to do _right._  
  
“…I’ll let you know. ” He answers softly. He’s not sure if it’s a lie or not. “Don’t worry until then, you need to recover.”  
  
Stan doesn’t accuse it of being a lie or not. He just glances away. “Sure.”  
  
—  
  
Ford has the instruments placed in a row, a clean row of sharp metal and drugs and mirrors.  
  
When they were little it took Stan and Ford a long time to understand Ford’s hands were _wrong._ It came in small increments, in clues left like a breadcrumb trial to the ultimate conclusion. It came with their mother’s dodged questions, their father’s distant barbs, the way the kids on the beach stared at him a little too long, a little too unsettled, a little too harsh.  
  
When they were little Stan would press his hands to Ford’s, they were so young and so curious and marveled over the difference. They were still one more than two then, and Ford would wiggle his extra finger to Stan’s delight, to his laughter.  
  
“I wish I had them too. ” Stan told him once, so young, so very very young.   
  
And Ford, so young, so very very young, let his small chest puff out in pride. “Nope! They’re all mine!”  
  
When they were little eventually they realized it was _wrong_ because that world didn’t just play pretend with them. Kids would crowd Ford, ask him questions, ask him why he had them and what they meant and how did  something so weird happen and how did _he_ happen and Ford didn’t know why it all stung so much.  
  
Stanley stood in front of him then, chest puffed out, trying to be bigger than he was. When words failed Ford  Stan noticed, he stopped everything and stood in front of him, chased everything away to make it quiet for awhile.  
  
They pressed their hands together when they were still young, but there was something sour in Ford now.  
  
“They’re dumb jerks. ” Stan told him, Stan _insisted._ “I wish I had them too.”  
  
It was the last time Stan ever said as much and it was said sadly, like he could share the stares and the skepticism and the words, like he could change something. Like he could protect his brother by taking a blow.  
  
He’s in the basement, instruments in place, hair shaved from the sides of his head. The plate is large, formidable, impossibly big in some way that made him feel small.   
  
He’s scared. The part of him that’s Bill laughs.  
  
Ford looks down at his hands and thinks of Stan standing in front of him, shielding him, Stan with his hands pressed to Ford’s with wonder. Stan taking their father’s ire, so many of their father’s nasty words, Stan holding him after Ford’s body hurt him and saying things would be okay.  
  
He wants to protect Stan, he thinks. _He wants to protect Stan._  
  
He picks up the scalpel.  
  
—  
  
_ithurtsithurtsithurtsithurtsithurtsithurtsohgod oh g o d_  
  
Then there’s pills, then it doesn’t hurt so much. Then Bill’s _gone._  
  
His head is swimming and he wants to get up, he wants to tell Stan, he wants Stan to know he’s safe now and Ford _did it_ and Stan’s safe, he’s safe. He’s safe.   
  
He thinks _I should tell Stan,_ he thinks maybe Stan will be proud of him for figuring it out, he thinks the walls keep lurching and that’s strange, isn’t it? Everything’s numb. He’s not numb though, he’s buzzing, right under his skin. When he moves he stumbles, and when he reaches out the walls feel strange under his touch.  
  
He keeps moving, thinking _I need to tell Stan._ He can’t remember what he needs to tell Stan, he looks down and there’s drops of blood on his shirt, like constellations. _The Little Dipper_ , he thinks. Maybe that’s what he needs to tell Stan.  
  
When he was in college Stan came back to their apartment with a gash up his arm, right by his elbow. Ford didn’t notice until he saw the blood dotted on the floor, trailing to the bathroom. He didn’t knock when he slammed his way inside.  
  
Stan wouldn’t look at him and said _just a dumb bar fight, Sixer._  
  
Ford was tired, Ford had work to do, Ford wanted to scream at him but he took the towel from Stan’s hand and applied pressure to the wound instead.  
  
Stan said _just a scratch,_ like it was a private joke, a bad one. Ford hadn’t laughed. He didn’t understand why it was funny.  
  
He thinks, as he collapsed in a chair by the kitchen table, that maybe he understands now. He laughs, several years too late.  
  
—  
  
Stan refuses to let him leave his bed- well, couch- much the first week. Stan’s _pissed_ , more so than Ford can remember seeing him in a long, long while.  
  
He storms around, but he’s always quiet once it’s clear Ford’s nodding off. He makes food he knows Ford doesn’t care for but sets it carefully at Ford’s side, makes sure he finishes every bite. His words and tone are clipped but he’s always there when Ford wakes up from nightmares and _Bill_ , eyes heavy, bags under them heavier.  
  
It’s amusing in a way that makes Ford a little sick. Stan cares so much even his temper couldn’t shatter it.  
  
Stan’s pouring over his journal, muttering about some code this or some supernatural being that. When Ford starts getting up Stan’s head is up in an instant, eyes narrowed dramatically, expression pinched and tired and _don’t you even start._  
  
“Back in bed, _now._ ”  
  
Ford doesn’t listen. His head aches but it’s only a dull ache, an echo of an ache.   
  
Stan isn’t impressed. “ _Stanford_ , if y’think for one second I won’t pick you up and put you right back-“  
  
Stan’s halfway across the room, hand on Ford’s arm when Ford lifts his own hand to cover Stan’s mouth. “Shh,”  he orders to Stan’s increasing ire. He tugs Stan towards the couch.  
  
“Stanford.” The word’s muffled against Ford’s skin but he gets the gist of it, the gist of the irritated tone. Ford sits down, releasing Stan’s mouth but pulling his arm to join him.  
  
Stan’s temper begins to melt finally, crack under an unexpected pressure. Ford doesn’t need to look at him to know his expression must be bordering on confused by now. “What are you doing?”  
  
“Sleeping.” Ford isn’t sure if it’s the drugs or the stress or the threat of Bill looming on the lining of every dream but he doesn’t care. He curls into Stan’s baffled side, not a particularly comfortable position but one steady enough that he can rest his head painlessly against Stan’s arm. “You’re making me tired just watching you. Sleep.”  
  
Ford closes his eyes, feels more than hears Stan’s breath pause before shaking in a tense, humorless sort of laugh. “Poindexter, I don’t care if you are drugged to the damn gills right now, I am _never_ letting you forget this one. And I mean it, _every time_ you pull your ‘sleeping right now would be inefficient, Stanley, I’m a busy guy I got-‘“  
  
Ford slaps his arm as hard as he can muster. He isn’t particularly pleased when the effort just makes Stan laugh. The laughter doesn’t have shadows clinging to the edges and well, maybe Ford is pleased. Just a touch.  
  
“Gloat later, sleep now. ” He orders, maybe pleads, because Stan’s voice softens as he leans back into the couch, careful not to shift them too much.  
  
“Sure, sure. Night, Ford.”  
  
“Night, Stan. ” Ford responds in a breath.  
  
And when Bill startles him out of his dreams too quickly Stan’s still there, snoring softly, toppled over in the most ridiculous position Ford’s seen him manage in ages. There’s a line of drool from Stan’s mouth to the cushion and Ford thinks maybe, just maybe, he won’t bring this up when Stan starts his gloating.   
  
—  
  
Stan’s covered in rainbow splotches and so is Ford, though nowhere near as much. Stan looks proud of it. Ford looks positively irate.  
  
They stand on the outskirts of the forest, huffing and puffing and it takes all of a minute for Ford to recover enough to round on Stan. “What were you _thinking?!_ ”  
  
“What?” Stan’s hands are up defensively in an instant, scowl in place. “Those no good jerks had it comin’! Besides, what’s a unicorn anyway? Just a horse that thinks it’s special cause it has horn, Stanford!”  
  
“I can’t believe you _punched a unicorn_ , Stanley! A unicorn! They’re paragons of… of virtue!”  
  
Stan snorts. “The hell they are, they’re cons.”  
  
Ford lets out a frustrated note from his throat, pacing and pulling at his hair. He doesn’t sleep much, not with Bill lurkingschemingwatching, and he feels it throughout his entire body, through his fingers and limbs and every muscle.  
  
He doesn’t try to hide his frustration, not anymore. “Even if they are cons, what are we going to do now? They’re never going to help us! You _punched_ one!”  
  
“Well sure, but they weren’t gonna help us to begin with. ” Stan points out, sweeping over before Ford can start ranting again to slide an arm around Ford’s shoulders. “Ford, remember when I said to trust me? With the wink?”  
  
“Yes, do you remember when I said ‘don’t cause trouble, we need this to make a barrier for the Shack and keep _you_ safe?'” Ford answers right back, disgruntled.  
  
Stan just grins, just lifts his hand from his pocket and with it a clump of multicolored hair.  
  
Ford stares. He blinks. “How-“  
  
“A magician never reveals his secrets.” Stan’s unbearably smug, though the undercurrent of joy and _pride_ makes it hard to hold it against him. “Or uh, a pickpocket never reveals ‘em. Let me say this, not so easy when what you’re pocketing is attached to a big, ugly rainbow horse.”  
  
Ford can’t help it, maybe it’s the crack of his tension but he laughs. Stan’s grin just softens, he just ruffles Ford’s hair as he pulls away, letting Ford take the hair.  
  
“So what now, Poindexter? Anymore creatures I need to mug?” Stan cracks his knuckles, the sigil burned into the back of his right hand stretching the newly scarred skin. He looks too excited for mugging but again Ford can’t hold it against him. He looks happy. No, maybe not happy. Fulfilled.  
  
Ford releases a breath, rolls the hair in his fingers. “No mugging, sorry to disappoint you. We’ll need to set the barrier up when we get back, test it and see what we can expect.”  
  
“Then that damned corn chip won’t be getting through, right?” There’s a sudden softness in Stan’s words. “And you’ll be able t’sleep.”  
  
Ford smiles, even if it’s stretched at the edges. “We’ll have to see. At the very least he won’t be able to get near the portal, it will give us more time to work on safely dismantling it.”  
  
“Sounds good to me.” And they walk, back to the house, side by side in the early winter chill. It isn’t until they’re back on the property that Stan speaks again, voice quiet. “What happens if we dismantle it, huh? I know people like him, he isn’t gonna give up when the going gets tough.”  
  
It’s a thought Stanford had as well, stuck in his throat, buzzing around the edge of his mind like a high pitched laugh.  
  
He tells the truth. “I don’t know, Stanley. It’s a bridge we’ll have to cross when we get there.”  
  
And he turns his head, glances at Stan, offers a small, tired smile. “Together, if you’ll stick by me.”  
  
Stan laughs like it’s a joke, like it’s a private one, a good one. “Yeah, together.” His arm is around Ford, heavy and solid, before he pulls back. “Enough of this sap, you’re making me sick here. Come on, we got moon rocks to crush.”  
  
Ford sighs, still smiling, and follows.

**Author's Note:**

> i hope this can stand on it's own but who knows. the next part will either be a general continuation of what happens from here or maybe fiddleford's pov? i'm not great at fiddleford so no promises but let me know
> 
>  
> 
> thanks and dedication to cake, as always. thank you for looking up what burning human flesh smells like and cringing with me.
> 
> also i want to thank people who comment, i'm SUPER bad at answering them and really should, but know they're all extremely lovely and thank you so much


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